


As It Was

by The_lazy_eye



Series: Be Still, Young Heart [3]
Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blend of AWAE and AOGG, Descriptions of depression, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23654623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_lazy_eye/pseuds/The_lazy_eye
Summary: He spends his time ascending and descending his ladder, filling basket after basket of apples until it seems as though he’ll run out of space for them all. Hundreds of thousands of goldens, greens, and reds. All unique in flavor and color, all a small piece of him.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Series: Be Still, Young Heart [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696243
Comments: 35
Kudos: 99





	As It Was

The late summer sun is warm on his skin. It’s a gentle welcome home after months away and he embraces it without hesitation, letting it kiss the flesh of his arms and shoulders as he pulls apples from their branches. As much as he loves medicine, there is something grounding about returning to this place. The familiar motions act as a balm to his aching bones. Avonlea may be a small town in the middle of a small island, but it’s home and that will always be more than enough. No matter where he goes, this place will pull at his heart over and over again.

He can’t ever escape; not fully. He’s tried many times before but the siren song calls him home. Like the tide to the shore, the push and pull is part of his very nature. He’s come to accept it in ways he wasn’t able to as a child. Coming home used to feel so huge. His return from Alberta was eventful. Avonlea revolved around him and he revolved around his father. When the steamer docked and he returned for the second time, he couldn’t help but feel as though something were looming over him. Yes, he was excited but there was something tittering under his skin. Little electric fires that made him itch to escape again. No, he would not be a small-town doctor. Avonlea went from a town he needed to escape to a town he felt he’d outgrown, and so he left in pursuit of greatness. His ties of love kept him, but when those were severed he ran again. Further and further until he was out of breath and gasping for reprieve. Every time he returned after that felt like another cut to his growing collection of wounds. Toronto became his new home, and medicine became both academic and personal in nature. He would heal others.

He would heal himself.

Now, though, home is less cutting. He’s found peace in the inevitable. Avonlea calls to him and he answers. He is faithful and devoted and this sacred place acts as a pillow for his tired spirit. These trees give shelter, the grass gives stability, the air gives _life._

And the sun – oh, _the sun._ It warms him to his very core until the sweat comes dripping down his nose and back. A day of hard work to strengthen the body, a night of hard sleep to strengthen the mind. Peace and safety in the only consistent piece of his life. 

Time heals all wounds and as he watches the apples sway in the wind, he realizes this may be the first moment he’s felt true peace in years. The wind smells so sweet, carrying to the fragrance from his orchard and mixing it with harvests of other farms. Toronto smells of oil and innovation. He’s blessed to be studying in such a modern place and those smells have become comforting in their own ways. In Charlottetown, he can smell the sweet pastries and breads wafting up and out of every bakery within a kilometer’s radius. It’s exciting and reminds him of being a small child, eager for his father to indulge their shared sweet tooth. But in Avonlea, he smells the Earth and all it provides. Harvest time gives way to the kinds of scents he never knew he could miss. 

He’s not even sure how long he’s out there. It could be hours, it could be days. He spends his time ascending and descending his ladder, filling basket after basket of apples until it seems as though he’ll run out of space for them all. Hundreds of thousands of goldens, greens, and reds. All unique in flavor and color, all a small piece of him. Bash must come collect his baskets as he works, swapping them out for empty ones so he can continue on down the line of trees. He’s grateful for his brother, a strong and steady heart. Their love runs deep between them, so deep it skirts below the ocean floor; untouchable and unbreakable. God put him on that ship so they’d come together, so Gilbert would bring him home where he belongs. So they would meet young Mary and conceive sweet Delphine out of pure love and bliss. 

His little niece. Her cherubic innocence stoked a fire deep inside of him. Never before had he felt so fiercely protective of something. Yes, he’d known love but never in this form. The second he looked into her hazel eyes – ones that mirrored his own – he knew he would die for her. Without hesitation, he would place himself between her and anything that threatened her. She would know pain, she would know struggle. He watched as Mary and Bash faced obstacles for no other reason than the pigment of their skin. He could not protect her from that; but he could protect her from everything else. By his word, she will not face more hardship than necessary. 

If Gilbert is anything, he is a man of his word. 

Idly, he wonders where she is. He’s got very fond memories of her running circles around the base of his ladder. Her giggle was like music to his ears, infection in nature until he felt laughter bubbling up and out of his chest. It comes now in subdued waves. He misses her. Where is she?

Maybe down by the crick or in the forest, making friends with the foliage in the ways she was taught by their wayward neighbor. At least he would never have to worry about her imagination being tampered down. 

He fills another basket, noting the sparseness of the tree he is stationed in and descending. There’s an empty basket waiting for him at the next tree, and the one after that. He can’t help his smirk at the sight. _Bash, you sneak._

And on he goes, tree after tree until the sun hangs in its heavy little spot in the sky. It ought to be time to head in, if not to call for the end of the day then to relieve the parch in his throat. The house isn’t terribly far away so he grabs his basket and makes his way in. 

“Bash?” He croaks, his voice rough with disuse. He coughs once as a way to get it back to normal and when he tries again it comes out sounding much more like him. “Bash, you in?”

A resounding silence answers his call, and so he toes his boots off and makes his way through the house. He listens for little footsteps but hears nothing. They must have gone out when Bash brought out the baskets, perhaps into town to run some errands or maybe to find company in Racheal or Marilla. He must have mentioned something, Gilbert is sure of it but he can’t seem to recall their last conversation. Had he seen Bash this morning? No, he’d gotten up early and went into the fields. 

Right? 

It’s difficult to remember. He must have spent too long in the sun. Now that he’s in the shade he can feel the heat of it creeping up his back and out the collar of his shirt. He’s hot, so unbearably hot. He needs rest. 

No. Water – he needs water. Water is the reason he had ventured out so far. The treetops had seemed so alluring at the time and he knew the streams were close by, only a little further into the brush. He can hear the babble of the brook calling out to him. 

_“Gilbert.”_

He’s close, grassy pathways slowly transforming into dirt and mud as he walks. 

Like the orchard, the woody hallways have always welcomed him home. Nostalgia floods his veins as he takes familiar steps. His boyhood was spent traversing these woods. To and from school, with his friends, by himself, in secret and in confidence. Gilbert grew up among these trees as much he did the ones he owns. 

Once he comes upon the brook, he falls to his knees and plunges his hands into the water. It’s icy on his skin and the shock sends little waves of relief buzzing into his arms. His hands cup water up to his face and he feels it run down the corner of his mouth as he drinks. Cold little dripples that go down his neck, they feel so good on his blazing skin. It brings him back down until he can feel the Earth pressing into his knees. 

He gulps down handful after handful of water, greedily taking what the brook has to offer him. He’ll return the favor when Mother Nature asks him, planting seeds and sowing life into the soil where needed. It’s a take and give; a push and pull. Something Gilbert has spent his entire life engaging in.

With his body cooled and his thirst satisfied, he can truly take in the space around him. Deep greens and browns decorate his vision. The bark of the wood is so healthy and vibrant, catching in the sun that sneaks in through the foliage. The water catches some, too, causing the surface to shimmer with each ripple. The plank bridge is older now, worn down and caked with mud and mildew yet still holding sturdy. It groans under his feet as he crosses. He sees distant memories of a young boy with his pants rolled up to his knees, fishing rod happily tucked under his arms as he takes in the sounds of nature. 

He passes that boy by and continues down the dirt path, deeper into the woods. 

Little songbirds sing out, their melody pretty and light. The sound of them fills his heart with an overwhelming joy, his steps turn into skips and spins as his arms stretch out around him. _Peace and happiness._ That’s what this is! That’s what he _needs!_ He’s been so stressed as of late, so consumed in his studies that he hasn’t stopped to smell the roses around him. Radiant buds bloom all around. Oh, how they’re beautiful. So red and vibrant in the sunlight. They make his heart swell and burst at their mere sight. Red has always been his favorite color. 

As he dances to tweets and twiddles, he notices that nature herself has engaged with him. Bushes sway in tandem, small woodland creatures have made their way out of hiding. Foxgloves line the pathway before him and among them, he scarcely sees a fox scurry along his path. A ways ahead, it glances back to send him a wink before sprinting forward. He beckons gilbert to follow and follow he will. 

_“Gilbert.”_

Shadows pass over top of him, little triangles growing bigger with every passing moment until they’re overtaking the sun. Wings the size of houses growing bigger and bigger, larger than any bird he’s ever seen! He laughs in disbelief, looking up at the bright sky and expecting to see dragons with wings so big. 

All he finds are clouds slowly swallowing up the sun. The sight of it causes him to stop in his tracks, looking back around to truly observe his surroundings. All is still around him, no dancing bushes or scurrying wildlife. There is no fox. Was there ever?

_“Gilbert!”_

Her voice snaps him out of his thoughts. She’s distant, faraway and achingly familiar but when he looks there’s no one. No dragon, no fox, and no girl. Just him. Trees stretch out for miles around him, leaving him lost in nothing but a sea of wood and grass. 

He heard her, though. He _knows_ it. Her voice was light and airy and it reminded him the stories he used to hear. Tall tales of faeries that stole little children from their families. _Be careful, young son, do not venture too far or they will take you. They’re pixie voices will lure you step by step into the unknown until you’re too lost to ever find your way home. Be careful, do not stray. Have fun but mind your head._

Come home to father. The forest is no place for a boy to live. 

He’s no longer a boy, though. Can the fae still have him? No, that hardly makes sense. Faeries are not real and they cannot have him. They’re nothing but silly tales meant to scare children home in time for dinner. 

This isn’t that. This is a girl lost in the woods, calling out to him. He’ll find her – bring her home to safety. 

He hears her giggle ringing out in the same way the birds’ song was sung. It bounces off of every rock and twig, leading him in circles around trunks and roots. He stumbles, chasing her as she continues to call his name. Her voice grows louder with each step and during the moments he thinks he’s lost her, she signals to him. 

“Miss? Miss, please!” He calls, hoping to pin her down. She must be on the move, there’s no way he would spend so long searching if she was stationary. “Are you alright?”

She doesn’t answer and a hush falls over him. Nothing makes a sound, not even the bustling leaves. It makes gooseflesh prickle up the back of his neck, his hair almost saluting the lost voice.

“Miss?” He calls, voice tentative. 

_“Gilbert! Oh, Gilbert, please!”_

Her tone has changed completely. Gone is the nymph he thought she might be. No, she is human and her voice cuts through him like the icy blade of fear. At once, he breaks into a sprint toward the sound. 

_“I couldn’t bear it,”_ She cries. He’s so close, he can feel it. What she cannot bear, he doesn’t know but that will not stop him from doing his duty and rescuing her. 

“Miss!” He’s yelling so loud his own echo returns to him. “Miss! I’m coming! I’m –”

Whatever words he had die on his tongue. 

A lithe figure stands before him, stationed in the dead center of a meadow deep within the wood. He doesn’t remember this place existing, but surely it must for he is here now. As is she, standing across the grassy patch with her back to him. Long, raven hair falls across her the shoulders of her white blouse. It’s tucked neatly into a dark skirt that bellows out around her ankles, rippling in the breeze. When her hair copies the motion of her skirts, he can see the creamy white of her skin. He cannot see her face but he’s certain she’s beautiful. 

“Thank heavens I’ve found you,” He says, careful not to startle her. “Come, let me escort you home. The sun is beginning to set.”

He takes a step forward but stops almost as quick. It’s then that it dawns on him. She called his name specifically. She called out for _him_. How could she know who he is? He’s certain he does not know her. Surely, he would remember someone with such stark features. Hair as black as night against porcelain skin. It’s an odd combination, one most uncommon in Avonlea. Yes, he’s known girls with dark hair but not such as this. It is almost as if he’s staring into darkness itself. 

“Miss?” He questions. His hand falls on her shoulder, jostling her lightly. 

When she turns, he is not prepared for what he sees. 

It’s – it’s _Anne_. But it’s not. It is not her because her red hair has been stained and her freckles have been scrubbed from her skin and – heaven help him. Her smile stretches bleakly on for miles in a Glasgow’s Grin. The wounds look old, fully healed and perhaps years faded, but the sight shakes him to his core. How has she gotten such grievous injuries? He’s only seen such things in textbooks, heard tales in the lecture halls of young faces carved up into that permanent grin. 

“Anne?” He chokes, stumbling back. 

It can’t be her. It can’t be but it _is_. Everything else is the same, from the grey sheen in her eyes to the slope of her nose. The birthmark that rests at the shell of her ear is still there, the very one he’d kissed in a faraway life. 

His stomach turns over and over again and his throat burns with bile. He’d have spilled his dinner had he had any. 

“Gilbert?” She gasps and that voice surely belongs to her. As does the cackle that rips from her lips. Her eyes go from glassy to manic as her laughter follows suit, consuming her whole. 

This time, he takes a full step back. His mind reeling. It must be playing tricks on him. This cannot be reality. Reality could never be so cruel as this. 

“Anne,” He says again, voice catching only slightly. “What’s happened to you? Let me take you home. We must get you home. Marilla will know what to do.”

She doesn’t answer him, doesn’t move save for the shaking of her shoulders as she continues howling up at the sun above them. Only it’s not the sun anymore, it’s the moon. Its full face watches them, winking that cunning wink. 

They have to get out of here. 

When he finally reaches out to her, desperate to take her into his arms and coddle her, she vanishes like smoke. 

Along with her, every tree and cloud fall away. The animals disappear with puffs of vapor. Every single blade of grass crumbles into nothing. 

And the world goes very, very dark. 

He’s not sure how long he sits in that darkness, but when he wakes, he is not alone. She is with him except it is no longer Anne. This woman is older, chestnut hair greying with age and eyes gentle in the same ways he recognizes in his own mirror. 

From his place in the grass he’s got a good view of her profile. Laughter lines are etched into the space around her eyes and mouth as she stares out into the waves crashing beyond the cliffs. She looks refined, yet relaxed at the same time. He recognizes her smile as the one he kept in the picture in his bedroom. It almost feels like someone poured color into that old black and white photo.

He knows without knowing. 

It’s his mother. 

“My sweet boy,” She says. Her voice is so unlike anything he’s ever heard before and he desperately tries to memorize it. For years, there was nothing he longed for more than to hear her speak and now he is. She is next to him, sitting in the tall grass and watching the ocean. The tide below them crashes against the rocks before drawing back. A call to the sea, a call to the shore. 

“My, how you’ve grown. So big now. You’ve become a man.”

“I’ve grown much since you left,” He says. He pulls himself into a sitting position. 

The backs of his eyes burn and no matter how he tries, he cannot blink the feeling away. He trades blinking for rubbing the heel of his palm against them, soothing the ache. 

Still, though, the tears come. Hot and heavy. 

“My son,” She hushes, taking him into her arms. “What’s the matter?”

“Is it truly you?” He asks, desperate to know the answer. When she nods, he hiccoughs and presses his face into her chest. “I’ve waited my entire life to meet you.”

“And I, you.”

When he pulls back, he sees so much of himself in her. Things he knew belonged to her, gaps in her half of the portrait that his father had genetically given him. His forehead and chin came from John Blythe, but the slope of his nose belonged to her. And he’d always thought his smile echoed his father’s, but now he’s not so sure. His mother’s own twinkle shines down upon him and it is a mirror of his own. So much of him came from her, things he never knew but now sees clear as day. 

“I am so proud of you. Do you know that?”

Something queer swells inside his chest at that. It makes a fresh wave of tears spill out. 

“You mustn’t be proud of me, mother. I have done so little with myself.”

“Oh,” She sighs, clasping his hands in hers. “Gilbert, you can’t possibly believe that.”

“I do, though. I am nothing special. I am not brave and I would argue I am not smart, either. I’ve run from every challenge in my life. At the first sign of rocky waters, I run. I ran when dad died, I ran when my heart got broken. I’ve said and done all the wrong things. Sure, I’ve got good grades but that means nothing! What use are grades when everything else goes wrong?”

She regards him for a moment, that gentle smile still on her face. He cannot find a hint of judgment or disappointment in her eyes no matter how hard he searches. Oh, how he feels it. Oh, how he wishes to be something better that he was. 

“I am no man, mother. I am but a fool in man’s shoes.”

“Now, now,” She tuts, raising their joined hands between them. “You are Gilbert, son of John! You are studying the most noble profession – you are to heal the sick and wounded! You’ve brought new families into our home; you’ve opened your heart up to those of different color and creed. You do not need to be perfect and strong in every moment. You are good as you are. Soon, we will go home and I’ll put dinner on the stove. We’ll have tea before bed and tomorrow you’ll go on to become Prince Edward Island’s most notable doctor. How does that sound?”

It sounds good. It sounds so good that he wants to turn tail and run for the house before she can go back on her word. A home cooked meal by his mother, what a joyous thought! He’ll keep her with him and that will soothe the ache he feels so deep inside. 

He wants to believe it. He wants, with every fiber of his being. But he cannot. This is not real – _she_ is not real. This woman, this version of his mother is nothing bit a figment he’s conjured up based on pictures and stories from his father. She might look like this, in some ways, but she is not his mother. Not truly. His mother died the very moment he lived.

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. 

“Mother?”

“Yes, son,” She hums, voice sweet as honey. She may be a fabrication, but she is his mother and he drinks the sound in greedily. 

“This isn’t real, is it?”

The look she gives him is sad, but knowing. “No, dear one. It isn’t.”

He allows his brow to furrow with thought. His mind is murky but he remembers the woods and the girl – _Anne_ – and how she called his name. Though he forgot it the moment he woke, it’s almost comforting to realize it was never real in the first place. That version of Anne is the same as his mother – something conjured up by his own mind. 

He tries to search for the last concrete memory he has. It’s difficult to siphon through the imaginary and the real. Was the orchard real? Possibly. The forest? No. The wedding? Yes, the wedding must have been. It was so lovely, the food fresh and the music lively. And what had happened…

A sudden cold washes over his body, leaving him shivering and gasping for air. His mother watches him shake, sympathy in her eyes.

Oh, right. The nosebleed. 

He passed out. 

He’s suddenly so aware of the pain in his body, his chest aches with the effort to breath and his stomach feels bloated and painful. 

“I’m dying, aren’t I?”

The look she gives him is the same. It’s all the confirmation he needs.

“What’s it like?”

“Your father and I have spent every moment watching over you, laughing when you laugh and crying when you cry.”

He’s unsure if what she says is true or if it’s simply what he wants to hear. No matter, his tears start anew. 

_“Gilbert, please don’t go.”_

It’s Anne’s voice again, the same one from before. It doesn’t sound nearly as manic but it’s clearly her. She rings out around him. There’s no escape. 

“Amusing isn’t it? Even as I die, she’s stuck in my mind.” His gaze lifts to the sky. The golden hue of the sunset washes over him and the chill from earlier is replaced with a burning, sickly heat. He has no idea what he’s dying of. Each and every symptom comes in fragmented waves making it impossible to run a proper assessment. 

“She’s quite beautiful. You love her,” His mother says. 

“Yes. I will until my last breath.”

“She is calling out to you, Gilbert. Why don’t you go to her?”

“She belongs to another,” Is all he says. Even now, it stings. 

“Hearts become intertwined in precarious ways. She is with you.”

“What is the point of life without love?” He asks. Not in a bitter, waning way but with every ounce of genuine curiosity he has. He watched his father live sixteen years without the love of his life. He raised a baby boy all on his own, watched as his kin spread out among the stars. Yes, he had his son but his wife, the love of his very life, was gone. How could he go on?

“Life is greater than just one love. God has plans for us all.”

“Are you God?”

She laughs at this. “Oh, no. Honey, I’m _you._ ”

He sucks air into his weakened lungs. “I love her, mother. How can I live without her? It’s selfish, I know. I should be grateful for all that I have. I should thank God for this bountiful life He’s given me. And I’m so sorry for what I’m about to say, but I can’t do it. I can’t! I’ve tried but every moment without her feels like I’m missing something inside of me. How can I go on? Why should I fight? What is waiting for me in that life?”

He openly cries, letting the shame and guilt wash over him like bathwater. He lets his mother scoop him into his arms again, cradling him to her chest. Ease settles among the pain and he allows himself to sink deeper into it; finally, he chases the comfort he so longs for. 

“My sweet son, my perfect lamb, the universe works in mysterious ways. Life and love are one in the same and love comes in many forms. You must love more than just her. You must love the Earth, you must love the sky, you must love your brother and niece and every single patient you heal in your studies. Love your friends, love your enemies. But most of all,” She hums, pressing herself close to his ear to make sure he hears the most important thing she has to offer him, “You must love yourself, Gilbert Blythe.”

He clings tightly to her, letting her words sink into his skin. Her voice is a sweet balm to the wounds in his heart. He cannot open his eyes, not yet. It would break the spell he’s under. 

“I love _you_ , mother. I do. I miss you so much,” He says. 

“Something’s happening,” He gasps. Hands automatically fly up to clutch at the collar of his chest, heat radiating in steady waves. It burns up, up, up, into his brain until the pain of it becomes so much he can hardly see and when the button of his shirt inevitably pops, he finds no relief. “Help me, please.”

He wants to reach for her but he can’t seem to tear his hands away from himself. They’re darting from his chest to his head, gripping his own hair and pulling in a desperate attempt to ease some of the pressure, ease some of the heat. Heavens, he’s burning up from the inside out. 

“Mother,” He chokes out, eyes finally finding hers in a panicked frenzy. _“Mom.”_

One arm reaches out for her, but as he stretches the pain in his abdomen doubles and he finds himself curled over, face pressing into the grass. 

_“It hurts.”_

Is he screaming? Is that his voice being ripped out of his chest?

Someone shushes him but he hardly registers it. He thrashes in the grass, body twitching uncontrollably until he’s on his back and staring into the blaze of the sun. _I’m having a seizure_ , he thinks wildly, eyes rolling back into his head for only a moment before he’s able to refocus them. Everything burns: the heat of the sun, the scratch of his clothing, his mother’s hands gently soothing his damp hair back and off his forehead. _This is dying_. 

He’s torn with relief and fear. At once, he wishes for the lights to claim him and offer him relief from the pain he has been in for years. That deep darkness, that unending emptiness, he does not want to return to it. He could not bear making it out of this only to return to _that_. But on another hand – a hand that once belonged to a carefree boy – he craves life. The very tips of his fingers itch for it, digging into the dirt underneath him and seeking anchorage. 

The Earth, the orchard, the mud between his fingertips and the bread between his teeth. The radiant smile of his niece and the playful love he shares with his brother. Golden yellow sunsets and bright, grey winters. The weight of a stethoscope around his neck. 

_Life._

His trashing stops almost as quickly as it began and his eyes find his mother’s hazel. She watches him with concern and that’s all it takes for him to begin sobbing in earnest. “I don’t want to die.”

He doesn’t. As much as he wants everything to cease around him, he does not crave _death_. Who has he become? He has succumbed to the folly of his own heart until it’s weak and battered beating became the drum to which he marched. 

Marched straight into his own grave. 

No, this will not be how he goes. Gilbert Blythe will not lie hereafter in cherished memory. He will breathe, he will press on. How could he let this happen? The rivers inside of him, the mountains in his heart, all of them would be to waste if he perished in this field. And for what? Selfish, foolish ignorance. 

Not long ago, he once believed he deserved this dark and tempting fate. Not now; not anymore.

“I don’t want to die,” He repeats. Gilbert Blythe will not perish. 

“You don’t have to, my dear,” She says. 

The heat begins to subside, the waves of it becoming less and less intense. When his mother places a gentle kiss to his forehead, it feels like a wash of cold settling it. The sweet, sweet, cool of a damp rag easing his body into a state of relaxation. The tall grass covers him and all he can see is the green mixing with the blue of the sky. The lull of the wind begs his eyes to close. 

_“You’re gonna get well, Gil, I know you will. We have so much to catch up on. We’ve missed so much.”_

“She’s waiting for you, Gilbert. Go to her. But remember, you cannot place your life solely in her hands.”

He nods, unable to find his voice. He will go to her. He will face the world another day. 

For the final time, the world goes very, very dark. 

When his eyes open he’s alone. No mother, no raven-haired Anne. No red-haired Anne, either. 

It is just Gilbert. 

The sun has set fully and there is a candle lit at his bedside. Outside the door, he can hear hushed voices. Part of him wants to listen and see who is there but another, bigger part feels content to lie here and sink into his bed. For now, this is enough. This gentle peace he has found within the walls of his childhood bedroom. 

He is tired, he is covered in sweat and blankets and there are damp cloth rags strewn about the room. But he is here, in his bedroom with loved ones smiling at him behind his eyelids. 

He is alive. 

**Author's Note:**

> Guys I’m really putting Gilbert through the wringer. Every time I sit down and write some of this I think to myself “I’m being so mean to him” and I AM. I know I am. 
> 
> I’ve ALWAYS wanted to write a delirium scene that borders on the edge of unsettling maybe even creeping into a dim horror for a moment there with that cheshire grin (ignore the historical accuracy of that please). I’ve done it ONCE before, roughly two years ago. 
> 
> So, dear reader, I am so genuinely curious. When did you figure out it was a dream? Did you know from the very start? I’m also wondering about the clarity. I know there are moments where the scenery changes and things become inconsistent (when Gil’s house transitions into the forest, Gil’s dancing in the woods, etc). Despite the chaos of the fever dream, were things clear? Were they consistent? 
> 
> I gotta say, as much as I love Gilbert “One foot in a textbook, one foot in the grave” Blythe deciding he’ll live the second he believes he has a chance with Anne, I’m a bigger fan of people living for themselves and loving themselves. And I love the idea of Gilbert regressing to an almost childlike state as he descends into (and even becomes aware of) his delirium. 
> 
> Also, choosing Gilbert’s mother over all of the other dead people I could have chosen was such a deliberate choice. Throughout the fever dream I wanted him to be shown regressing in childlike nature. He danced, laughed, imagined, cried, begged, and demanded comfort. All things he didn’t really get to do in the series. He’s always shown studying, working, running, grieving. With the illness and death of his father, Gil never really got to be a child. He had to grow up very fast, become a man very fast. He lost a lot of that childlike wonder very, very early. He never knew the gentle touch of his mother and he never really allowed himself to be weak or in need of comfort. Mary wasn’t a mother to him, she was a sister. A sister whom he watched die as well. So the inclusion of his mother, a person he never got to meet but still represents the archetype of mother, allowed him to have those experiences - even if just in his mind. He allowed himself to become vulnerable. 
> 
> In shutting those parts of himself down, Gilbert numbed his entire self. You cannot selectively numb emotions, friends. You fry your entire emotional circuit board that way. This “mother archetype” interaction is instrumental in his healing. He returns to the wound (the real wound, not just Anne’s rejection - there’s way more there than just a broken heart) and he begins to heal. And his healing is way bigger than forgiving and loving Anne. He needs to forgive and love himself. He needs to allow himself to have his full range of emotional experiences. Which is what the next part of this series is going to explore. Strap in, guys, this has become a full-blown character study and I’m pumped about it. 
> 
> Anyway I’m done ranting. If you wanna chat, come find me @ thelazyeye.tumblr.com. I have a thousand more thoughts about this story, so if you’re interested at all pop on by. Otherwise, keep an eye out for the fourth (and potentially final) installment of this series. I’m excited to start writing it! No telling when it will be out, but it is coming!
> 
> As always, take care of yourselves and stay safe out there.


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